


and to the winner goes the spoils

by kay_emm_gee



Category: The White Princess (TV)
Genre: 1x01, Canon Compliant, F/M, First Meetings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 14:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11060541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_emm_gee/pseuds/kay_emm_gee
Summary: He has seen this look directed at him before, but never by a woman. By men in battle, or by a deer in the woods as his hounds circled it. Fear is something he recognizes reflected in someone else’s eyes, but it is new seeing it in a woman’s.Henry wasn’t expecting that, not from her. Elizabeth of York was all thorns, he had been told, not this trembling flower before him.{in which Henry is wrong, oh so wrong, in what he first thinks of his future wife}





	and to the winner goes the spoils

He has seen this look directed at him before, but never by a woman. By men in battle, or by a deer in the woods as his hounds circled it. Fear is something he recognizes reflected in someone else’s eyes, but it is new seeing it in a woman’s.

Henry wasn’t expecting that, not from her. Elizabeth of York was all thorns, he had been told, not this trembling flower before him. He should feel relieved that this princess is scared of him, of his power and divine royal right. His kingship and very life depends far too heavily on her willingness to bow to him, and so for her to have that fearful sheen in her eye as they look upon one another for the first time should make his stomach unknot.

Instead, his gut clenches, in what he might almost call disappointment.

She isn’t looking at him anymore, not directly. Her gaze is locked on his chest, but still somehow unfocused. If she will not look at him, that is her choice, but he takes the opportunity to take a second look at her. Elizabeth is beautiful, that much his advisors had not gotten wrong. Even in these dark, sparse rooms–the ones given to shame her and her family–her white-gold hair shone like pure sunlight. He would feel better if he knew that beauty would fade with time, but one look at her mother, whose own looks had prevailed triumphant over age, and Henry knew that would not be the case.

The former peasant queen stood just beyond Elizabeth’s shoulder, a pale ghost that was far too real a reminder of how tenuous his position on the throne could be. That was why they were all here, after all. This unwanted union was something they all needed, desperately. And so, Henry takes a breath and does his duty.

“Good day, Princess Elizabeth.”

Her gaze flicks upwards, locks on his, and his chest tightens in anticipation, because it feels like he is finally seeing Elizabeth, Princess of York for the first time. The fear is gone, replaced by a maelstrom of emotions that flicker across her face too quickly for him to register. As she continues to stare–no, _glare_ –at him, he realizes her shaking is not from fear. It is from rage, the type that is barely contained, and he wonders how he missed it earlier.

She is no flower whose petals are rattled by even a puff of summer breeze; Elizabeth is the storm itself, right before it breaks and lays waste to every living thing in its wake.

Storms do not scare him, however; he has battled rain, and thunder and lightening, and far, far worse to win his crown. If she was just one more storm to weather, then he could do it. He _would_ do it, because it was indeed his crown now and no slip of a woman, no matter how enraged, would take it from him.

Before he can say anything else, however, his mother scolds her, and suddenly–fey thing that she is–Elizabeth changes before his eyes again. He can see it, as if in slow motion, that immediately after that single word– _king king king_ –is uttered, she goes still. The storm calms, the rage burns away. Elizabeth bends barely low enough to be a proper address for a king, and greets him, finally.

“Good day, Your Grace.”

Her voice is even, pleasant, utterly neutral, and her face is blank as well. Such placidness shouldn’t inspire fear in him, but suddenly Henry feels a shiver go up his spine. The back of his neck goes hot. A flower he can coax to bend to his will, and a storm he can outlast and conquer, but she is neither of those things now. Just because of that one word–new to him and so very familiar to her–she disappeared before his very eyes, becoming the most dangerous type of enemy. He cannot fight what he cannot see, and so, for the very first time since that battlefield at Bosworth, Henry feels true fear.

And it is in fear that he glances away from her, but in the span of a heartbeat, his eyes find hers again. His stomach drops, because she was waiting for him to look her way once more, as if she knew that he didn’t have the strength to hide from her like she was hiding herself from him. Elizabeth doesn’t look away again, and neither does he, and something new begins to twist inside of him, something sharp digs into the deepest parts of his soul and makes a more desperate kind of fear take root.

That new, unplaceable sensation and the fear it elicits in him is why he takes a large sip of the offered wine, and why he deliberately pricks the princess’s pride with his dancing requests. With a single look, she has made him start to bleed from the inside out, and he is determined to make her do the same.

 _If it is a battle that Elizabeth wants, it is a battle she’ll get_ , Henry decides as he watches her stiffly dance before him. _And to the winner…_

He doesn’t take his eyes off of her the entire time.


End file.
